


The Switch

by starstuddedsin



Series: Monrovia [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathed in cum, Bestiality, Boypussy, Cervix Penetration, Choking on a Dick, Cock Worship, Dubious Consent, Fisting, Humiliation, Large Cock, M/M, Medical Kink, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Piss Enema, Pregnancy, Prostitution, Rimming, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Temperature Play, Tentacles, Vaginal Sex, hurt that builds to just the barest bit of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24092500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstuddedsin/pseuds/starstuddedsin
Summary: The Switch is a little elf boy with a useless cock and a very tight cunt. He's not good for very much in this world of humans, but he is good for fucking. He has a deal with the local constable that turns out very well for the constable. Not so well for the Switch.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Victorian omega waif/Every brutal top in a twelve-mile radius
Series: Monrovia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783531
Comments: 20
Kudos: 365





	1. The Switch

The Switch strained to take the constable's thick cock down his throat. 

The constable was a large man, barrel-chested with a bulge for his stomach. The Switch was tiny next to him, little more than a shivering slip with the bump of his own belly rounded up and alien-looking on his skinny form. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least the constable was hot. A source of heat was worth something, after all, even if it was thrusting into the Switch's mouth and driving his chin into the sweat of the constable's heavy balls. The Switch would take it. His thin arms beneath his workhouse shift were nearly blue with cold and his dirty legs were almost as bad, only half-covered by the ragged trousers he'd scrounged from a washing line by the Exeter gate, back when he'd been quicker on his feet.

Not so quick now. Not with the belly that sailor had left him with.

The constable's big hand forced him to take the cock deeper. It was thick and heavy on his tongue, and the sour smell of the constable's grizzled grey pubic hair filled the Switch's nostrils. The hairs were coarse on the skin of his face. He could hardly breathe. There was nothing but the smell and the unwashed, rancid taste. And the tears that came unbidden to the Switch's eyes as his throat spasmed. It took everything not to try to pull away. The constable didn't like that. He liked the Switch to suck like his life depended on it, so the Switch did. Anyway, even if the Switch tried to stop, the constable could easily overpower him. And even if the constable didn't beat him black and blue, he could always round up the Switch on the paddy wagon and send him back to the workhouse -- or, with the way the royal Duke felt about sin and vice and inhumans, someplace worse.

It was thanks to the constable that the Switch wasn't at the very least in the workhouse now. The workhouse was his earliest memory, the cold dank cellar he'd slept in, the foreman's heavy form pressing him into his pallet. Driving into him while the boys -- the proper human boys -- jeered. The Switch was not a proper boy. He was a Switch. He had the pointed ears, the green-tinted nails, and the small, lithe form of a Switch. He had the little mounds on his chest and -- so he was told -- the pretty face all Switches had. Only his hair was wrong. The wrong color, everyone said. It was black. It ought to have been gold. Proper Switches, the Switches that the Royal Exploration Company had discovered out in foreign jungles, they were said to have had hair like the sun. The Switch was colored the opposite way. He was a dun and dirty thing that had crawled out of a cellar. He had a pretty little Switch cock, though, even if it was small and useless, and he had a cunt, too. That settled it even if the ears and nails didn't. He was a Switch. 

The only one in the Gin Tangle, the ugliest, filthiest slum in the capitol. So he wasn't like the other girls that worked Russell Alley, down by the docks. Those girls the constable cheerfully arrested. The Switch he had pulled out of the paddy wagon, though, just after it had reached Monrovia Gaol.

"We're gonna come to an agreement, you and me, Switch," the constable had said, and had dragged the Switch to a dark little room, shoving him under his big black desk. The constable had sat and undone his trousers with one meaty hand, letting his thick, stubby cock spring free. It had already been hard. The Switch hadn't needed to be told what to do with it. He'd been sucking cocks almost as long as he'd been alive. The only difference was that if he sucked them in a workhouse, he wouldn't see any profit. 

Not that he saw any profit with the constable. But staying free _was_ the profit. No one beat him outside the workhouse, or at least the beatings came less regular. So long as he could make enough coin to feed himself and pay for a pallet in one of the lodging houses, and to pay off Grenfell Jack, who owned Russell Alley and all the whores in it.

He had enough for Jack this week, but not yet for the pallet. But he could scarcely think of the pallet right now. His jaw ached and his throat burned. He bobbed on the constable's cock, desperate for a breath he could barely manage, until the man pulled him off. As the Switch gasped for air, the constable turned him around easily, letting him drop to the ground. The Switch's hands scrabbled on the rough gravel of the street.

The constable hadn't come. He was still hard and thick. His heavy boot kicked at the Switch's skinny backside.

"Trousers off, Switch."

The Switch struggled to pull the rags down. The constable liked him to be quick, but it was hard when his body no longer felt right, when the bump of his belly made every movement unfamiliar. When he had one leg free, the constable kneed it with his boot until the Switch's legs were splayed enough to give nice easy access to his cunt. The Switch shivered to feel the cold air on it, on his bottom and on his little cocklet. Then the constable's hands were on his hips, hard enough to bruise, and the constable's thick pole was forced into him.

The shriek came out of the Switch unbidden. He'd thought it would be alright -- he'd slicked himself up with a pot of fat he'd spent a twelve pence on. Because that was the trouble with Switch cunt. It was too tight. A gentleman who'd had him the other week, a cut above his usual customer, with a purple cravat and fawn breeches so soft the Switch had almost loved the way they brushed his thighs, had claimed the tightness was biological. You bred up a Switch, and its cunny would go nice and tight for the duration of the pregnancy. But the Switch had almost _always_ been tight as a virgin. The workhouse foreman had torn him up something awful half the time, and left him bleeding nearly always. 

The constable would be doing the same right now if the Switch hadn't greased himself, but even with the grease that fat cock hurt. The Switch's whole world was the hurt, the brutal thrusts into his core. The gravel cutting into his knees and forearms fell away. He felt his hands instinctively grab his round belly. The constable was saying something, but over the pain the Switch could scarcely hear.

"So _tight_ , you little slut. That's right. Take it. Take it in your tight Switch cunt. How's it feel? Ought to do your arse sometime, you little whore, see if it's as tight. Tighter every time I fuck you--"

His thick hands slapped the Switch's bare arse in time with his thrusts, and even that the Switch scarcely felt over the hot, horrible pole that kept impaling him. He could hear his own pathetic cries, feel the way tears and snot crusted his face. Not twenty minutes ago he would have given anything to feel something other than the bitter cold of Monrovia in winter. Now he was a bit warmer, but only because the constable was using him, fucking him hard with no care for comfort. 

Yet just behind the pain there lurked another sensation, a fullness the Switch hated himself for craving. Although one hand stayed on his belly, another crept down -- not to his useless cock, slapping his own thigh with the force of the constable's thrusts -- but to the little pebble above his cunt. He flicked it desperately, trying to make the pleasure build. It wouldn't drive away the pain, but it could make it more bearable. 

The constable settled a hand on his neck, splaying his large form over the Switch's smaller one, driving the Switch fully into the hard gravel of the alley. The Switch's belly was crushed beneath him. This made the Switch abandon his cunt. 

All he could think for a moment was panic, though he scarcely knew why. He had no care for the thing in his belly, and half the time he tried to pretend it didn't exist. But now he was nothing but panic and reactions. 

The constable was looking for an angle to sheath himself fully, and then he found it. He drove himself in to the hilt. The pain was terrible. The Switch felt like the constable was breaking him open with every thrust. He was sobbing outright, sobbing into the dirty street as he was used. With a groan and a few more slaps to his arse, the constable was coming. The Switch could feel ropes of heavy cum shooting into his battered cunt. Even when the constable pulled out, the Switch was so wet and sore he could hardly move.

The constable whistled as he pulled up his own drawers. He toed the Switch's cheek amiably with his boot before continuing down the alley.

"Until next week, Switch."


	2. Breakfast for a Wrollf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our little elf fucks an alpha werewolf type. Because I felt like it.

The Switch could rarely manage take another man in his cunt right after the constable. So it was just as well that the constable always came by in the early hours of the morning, when business was winding down. There was nothing for the Switch to do after that but pull on his ragged trousers, ignoring the cum and blood seeping out of him, and limp to a shaded nook behind some refuse bins. There he curled up and slept a bit, until the noise of the street woke him. 

Then he spent some time curled up not-asleep. He was still so sore. He'd been sore before the constable, and he was more sore now. Moving caused him so much pain that for a bit he only wanted to be still.

But still wouldn't fix the hunger gnawing at him. With cold hands, he reached into the pocket he'd sewn on the inside of his shift, and counted out the coins he had so far. Jack's share was precious and not to be touched. Grenfell Jack -- he was the whole reason the Duke's men didn't descend on the Gin Tangle and clear it out, clear it of whores and vice and filthy inhumans like the Switch. And if the Switch didn't pay Jack, then Jack would have no trouble delivering him to the Duke's guard himself, and that would be worse than the constable's paddy wagon. So the Switch put Jack's share away again, tucked it safe right next to the little pot of fat. 

Thank the saints, though, that even after that there were a few pennies that would do for a breakfast. The Switch breathed a sigh of relief, then clumsily hauled himself up. 

No one bothered him as he made his way down to Turnkey Street. The peddlers and ruffians and costermongers of the Gin Tangle knew by now that he was one of Jack's, so they gave him the berth he needed to stumble to the Red Gable, the sorriest of the city's lodging houses. There he bought a meat pie and some beer, even if Tabitha, the barmaid, didn't let him stay inside to eat and drink. She was too afraid of Jack to deny him a pallet, assuming he could pay for it, but during daylight hours and at the bar, she didn't like dirt about, and she didn't like whores about, and she didn't like inhumans of any kind. Not just Switches -- not Wrollves, not Peskies, not Eelies from the East. 

"Decent people can't eat with your kind about. Go," she always told him, and pointed to the back alley where the privies were. The Switch counted that a kindness. It was often warmer there than the street, never mind the stench. Tabitha kept a half-rotted table there where inhumans could eat. He squeezed onto the bench between two Wrollves and bit into the greasy pastry of the pie. Its vinegar warmth flooded his mouth, and he could have cried at the sensation. He focused on chewing it, trying to take it as slow as his hunger would allow. He wouldn't eat again until tomorrow, probably, and the eating was the best part of his day. 

The beer too. It was sour, but enough of it made the pain in his cunt start to dribble off, made him feel a bit lighter and less achy. He savored that, too.

After this, he wouldn't be drinking much more than cum today.

As if it could read the Switch's thoughts, one of the Wrollves put a heavy hand on his thigh. The Switch had finished his meat pie despite himself, and there wasn't much beer left. He felt something in him break a little, but so much was broken there it didn't much matter. At least it was a Wrollf. The sailor that had fucked this babe into him had been a Wrollf, and there was something about their kind that meant they didn't like fields already ploughed. This one was giving him a good long sniff, and then it -- he, the Switch wasn't sure he'd ever seen a Wrollf _she_ \-- said, with that guttural Wrollf accent, "How much for your mouth? The cunt's been claimed, I see."

Claimed even more thoroughly than the constable had claimed it. Wrollves were big, bigger than the constable, and if the Switch hadn't been sick and panting, out of his head, the Wrollf sailor that had bred him a month ago might also have broken him. But he'd been flushed and hot and needy then, and the sailor had spotted him and said, "A Switch in heat. Your kind needs breeding to fix that, eh?" 

The Switch had been too insensible to protest when the sailor had paid for a pallet and fucked him in it, and the fucking had been _good_ , for once. For once he hadn't been too dry or too tight. And it had gone on for rounds and rounds, so many rounds of the Switch mewling on cock that Tabitha had stopped calling him _Switch_ and had started archly calling him _little Slut_.

He had been. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't shake the thrill of remembering it. 

This Wrollf had bent his head back when it addressed him, and its golden eyes were just like those of the other Wrollf's, slitted at the pupils. The Switch felt his mouth go dry.

"Five pence," he managed, hearing how hoarse he sounded after the constable had scraped his throat raw. This was going to hurt, but he almost didn't care. Ever since the last Wrollf had bred him and he'd proven himself a slut for their kind, he looked forward to serving them as much as he despised himself for it. After the money was pressed into his hand, he didn't hesitate to hop off the bench and lead the Wrollf back to the shadows of Russell Alley. Some of the other girls had already taken his preferred nooks. One, a yellow-haired trollop called Nell, wasn't even working, but she still hissed when she saw him come her way. Some girls would let the Switch have a nice spot if they saw he needed it, but never Nell. 

"Move on, Switch bitch," she snapped. "At least you're not trying to fuck human men today."

For some reason, this made the Wrollf chuckle. 

They found a dark corner behind a stables, where the Switch could drop to his knees.

He locked eyes again with the Wrollf. It wasn't particularly handsome, as Wrollves went. Though it looked mostly like a man, the tusks that curved up from its lower jaw made it horrifying, and a thatch of thick straw-colored hair sprung from the collar of its shirt. When the Switch undid its trousers, he found that its coarse pubic hair was the same color and that the same blond fur stretched across its thighs in great bands. Nestled among all that pale burr of hair was a cock as long as the Switch's forearm, and about four times as thick. The Switch opened his mouth wide and could still barely take in the tip. The Wrollf gave a low chuckle. Its clawlike nails gently traced the Switch's cheekbone.

"Five pence for such a weak little mouth?" the Wrollf said, as if it hadn't been obvious that the Switch would be too small to accommodate its massive pole. The Wrollf's tone became taunting. 

"Work for me, little Switch. Or I will take you back to the Peskies on my ship and have you pay back the five pence in cunt to them."

The Switch shuddered. He hated Peskies, hated their foul fish smell, hated their barbed penises, hated how the little leeches attached to their torsos latched onto him during sex and quite physically sucked the blood from him. He had barely survived his last encounter with one. The Wrollf must have seen this memory in his frightened eyes, because it laughed as the Switch redoubled his efforts to please the great cock before him. 

He could not take it fully in his mouth, but he could lick and slobber and _worship_ it. He made his tongue journey up and down the length, tasting every inch. He rubbed it against his own cheeks, sending vibrating sucks along it. No one wanted to kiss a Switch, but the Switch knew how to kiss a cock, how to attend to it like it was the only thing that mattered. The constable and Grenfell Jack had taught him that. While his mouth hummed and licked and strained to please the massive pole before him, his hands snuck around to the huge balls behind, gently massaging them and making the Wrollf groan. These were harder to suck because of all the hair, but the Switch tried his best anyway as his hands switched to working the cock. 

Though he swallowed more than one wiry blond hair, it didn't matter, because the Wrollf seemed to like this.

Its heavy hand settled on the Switch's head. But it didn't force, like the constable did. It just petted the Switch. 

"Lick me, little bitch," it panted. "Take those balls in your mouth. Can you do it?"

He could only just barely manage one. Its heavy, musky smell surrounded him, and he moaned despite himself. Though his cunt was still hurting and was as clammed up tight as it ever was, he felt a little lick of pleasure and wet down there. And he was warm, jammed up against the Wrollf's body. Wrollves were always hot. They felt like the rare pleasure of warming himself before a fire, and so no matter how cruelly they used him he couldn't help but pant against them like this. Pathetic and grateful.

When the Wrollf came it was with a harsh roar, jamming the head of its cock against his waiting tongue. Ropes of cum painted his face, his hair, and then kept coming. He could see the engorged head of the Wrollf's pole and surged forward, wanting to taste it. If that bulb were in him it would make his cunt strain, make a hot stopper to plug him up. He knew he should be glad it wasn't in him, but a small stupid part of him still wanted to feel it. 

He was twenty minutes on his knees before the Wrollf, worshipping it still, before the knot went down. When the Wrollf was done the Switch was well and truly drenched in cum, but at least it was warm Wrollf cum. He could have cried for the relief of being bathed like this. Just not being _cold_ was nice, even if he knew that soon the cum would harden and he would be cold again, if he didn't wipe it off in the next ten minutes or so.

The Wrollf patted his head again.

"You earned your five pence, little Switch bitch."


	3. Eerie Eelie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tentacle cocks, and our fucked-out protagonist getting into a lot more trouble than he initially bargained for.

He didn't get another Wrollf for the rest of the day. It was humans, mostly, as most of Monrovia was humans. Many didn't want a Switch mouth or cunt. Many were quick to say they preferred the cleaner, purer mouths and cunts of human women. But it was alarming how many of those _many_ still pressed him back into the shadows as they said that, their calloused hands shoving down his trousers without preamble. 

None were as big as the Wrollf or the constable, and that was a relief. While his mouth and cunt never quite rested, and the latter was still so tight he had to grease it like a mad thing just to keep the men from making him cry, each fuck was easier than the constable had been. They fucked him over barrels and troughs, pressed him against alley walls where the rough wood scraped his back. Some laughed about how he smelled like Wrollf cum, but most didn't bother commenting on his smell. They just pawed him, played with his little tits and slapped a bit at his belly. Tugged his little cock and flicked the pale marbles of his balls. Humans might say otherwise, but they were fascinated by the Switch's body, even by the peaks of his ears and the knobby green fingertips that tugged their cocks to orgasm. 

When they did get talkative, it was usually to ask if all Switches were such whores, if all Switches loved getting it rough like this. All of that was just the usual talk, but still sometimes the Switch wondered shakily if there wasn't real curiosity there, if they didn't really want to know what Switches were like. He wanted to know. He'd never met another Switch before. Only heard about them. 

Just before the Grenfell bell rung, signaling that Jack would be coming through, an Eelie appeared. It flashed into view out of the nothing, faded into being. It was as dull a grey as the cobbles and gravel all around them. The Switch had heard that in their warm red deserts Eelies were all warm and red, but here they were damp and grey. Their voices rattled like coaches on the avenue, and their sticky triple-members were freezing. He liked fucking them only a little more than he liked fucking Peskies, but it didn't do to deny them. Eelies had four arms, and the whores of Russell Alley were quick to say that once, when a girl had been rude to an Eelie, she'd learned what it was to have three slimy cocks and four sticky fists inside her. They did like to fist. Their hands were sensitive as a human's cock, the Switch thought. And they liked to see the bump they made in your stomach.

Only he was no good for that anymore. This Eelie looked at him like it was disappointed, because his stomach was already swollen past the point of usefulness. But it still stepped into his corner of the alley, ducking behind the overhung back roof of the stable and past the pile of trash that cut off view of the main alleyway. As it moved towards him, the sounds of the alley dropped away. Eelies always did that. Something about them seemed to lodge sand in your ears. 

"How much?" it rasped.

"Five pennies for a suck," the Switch told it. "Six for my cunny. Seven for my arse."

One of its sticky hands reached into its shirt, and then it was tossing pennies at him. They rolled on the wet, dirty ground. The Switch went to his knees to gather them up greedily, counting them as he shoveled them into his shirt. Ten. Eleven. Thirteen. He could find no more, but this was still a windfall. He would have enough to make up everything he owed to Jack, _and_ pay for a pallet tonight, maybe even one of the good ones by the warm end of Tabitha's backroom. He could have cried from relief.

Eelie cocks were long and unpleasant, but they were thin as human cocks. Only they had a life in them human cocks didn't. These were already peeking up out of the Eelie's trouser band, leaking the cold goo that the Switch so hated. He'd dropped his own trousers four customers ago, and so he just got on his hands and knees, steeling himself for the awful cold that would be in his arse and cunt soon.

Eelies had no weight except the weight of soundlessness, so he barely felt the four arms latch onto him, two holding him still, two tugging his legs farther apart. He only knew the Eelie was right on top of him because of how all the sound fell away. And because of the freezing, sticky probes at his cunny. Two of them. And one in his arse. He could feel the awful iciness plunging into his hole, his tight back ring. Without meaning to, he made an animal noise, a wail. It was swallowed up by the cold magic of the Eelie.

Though the girth wasn't as bad as anything else the Switch taken today, these tentacle-cocks didn't _need_ to be thick. They entered him, scraped him open with ice, and then probed deeper. And deeper. Their damp, sticky cold leached into the skin around his holes. His teeth began to chatter. He was so cold it was painful, and still the Eelie forced its three undulating cocks into him. For a single instant the one in his arse curved as if to meet one of the ones in his cunt, separated only by his freezing, hurt flesh, and he realized that he was sobbing. Sobbing, and every sob fed the Eelie's desire to swallow up his sounds. The Eelie shook above him, its version of a chuckle. 

It kept probing. He knew it was nowhere near sheathed yet. The one in his arse was in his guts now, curling inside him, causing painful waves of cramps. The two in his cunt were at his cervix. He could _feel_ when they went too deep, sliming their way into recesses that could barely weather the awful chill they brought. Once again his hands found his belly without him thinking about it, and formless panic took hold of him. He realized distantly that he was begging soundlessly for the Eelie to stop, telling it he hadn't thought this through.

The Eelie didn't stop. 

It began to _fuck_. The two in his cunt slithered in and out not in tandem, but one after the other, so that he was never free of the scraping cold inside him. The one in his arse was no better, still corkscrewing around his insides. His sobbing breaths were visible in the air and his limbs were almost all blue now, and still the Eelie did not stop. He could not even feel the pain of having his arse and cunt forced open, because all he could feel was cold. The lack of sound made the cold more profound, made him feel as if he was fading into the freezing grey of the wintry Monrovia alleyway. 

It lasted, perhaps, forever. He could never tell with an Eelie. He only knew that his tears had frozen on his face by the time the cocks slithered out of him -- Eelies never came, so that sometimes he wondered if the only reason they fucked was for the pleasure of swallowing up their victims' cries -- and he was shivering on the floor of the alley, still clutching his belly.

It kicked. 

Despite himself, he hiccuped in relief and then began to cry again. In the long moments that followed, he cried and cried, and he hoped Jack was not standing at the mouth of the alley watching him. 

Jack did that sometimes, on his rounds. If a girl was occupied, he wouldn't move on. He'd stand and watch, palming himself through his fine scarlet trousers. When the customer was done, he'd proceed to the girl and come on her, chuckling, and say, "Now thank me for the chance to do business, darling." He'd done it to the Switch more than once. But Jack didn't come. All was still and quiet.

Which didn't mean Jack wouldn't be coming. After another few long moments, the Switch forced himself up onto his hands and knees again, teeth still chattering. He found his dirty trousers and pulled them on over his goose bumped legs. He couldn't quite stand, because his toes were half-frozen. He had to make several attempts. When he finally got the hang of it again, he stumbled to the mouth of the alley. He expected to see Jack somewhere along the length of it, Jack's men lounging on the barrels by the mouth, cracking jokes.

Jack was there. So were two of his men -- Gripper Folkes and Stan Slightly. So was Nell, and so were many of the other girls. They were splayed at the mouth of the alley, all of them, blood pooling from their mouths and from...other places. And standing over them were the Duke's guard.

The Switch gave a gasp of horror, and immediately hated himself for it. He was sure they heard him, sure they'd come and gut him, too. But then, when they didn't, he looked at his cold hands and realized that most of him was as faded as the Eelie had been. The Eelie had fucked him faded _and_ soundless. For once, he was grateful for it. He turned and ran for Turnkey Street. 

Tabitha was at the mouth of the Red Gable, flirting with a guard.

"Aye, and there's a dirty little Switch there too. Make sure to get him," the Switch thought she was saying. He still couldn't hear well, so he couldn't be sure. But he wasn't taking any chances. Though no part of the city had ever been safer for him than the Gin Tangle, now he knew this wasn't safe either. He ran and ran, away from the guards, until he could scarcely run any more.


	4. Vicar!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Switch thinks he's found a place to rest. He has not.

The Switch didn't know where he was. 

He'd never been farther than the constabulary or the workhouse, after all, and that wasn't so far from the Gin Tangle. Any farther than that and the houses were too sleek and trim. The streets were too clean. His dirty form stood out enough, in those places, that he soon found himself running from less amenable constables than the one he'd brokered a sort of deal with. 

But he'd been too terrified to realize that this sort of place was precisely where he was going, and by the time he could see his arms again, hear sounds again, he was hopelessly lost in a part of the city far too good for the likes of him.

It was dusk, and the streets here were not crowded. Still, there were two women in silks and lace, with lovely parasols, ambling down the street. The Switch shrunk away from them, hoping they wouldn't see him. They would be just the sort to scream and alert the constabulary. So he backtracked, panicked, praying to the saints he'd been taught about in the workhouse, the saints that watched over the miserable.

One of those saints must have answered him. At the turn of the street, there was a high black gate, hanging open. Beyond it, the Switch could see cracked headstones, mottled with brown winter grass. He slipped inside the cemetery and tucked himself behind the first mausoleum he saw. There his only company was a sightless, worn stone angel. 

It began to rain. He cast about for somewhere dryer and warmer. The mausoleum was barred shut, and offered little actual shelter. There was, beyond a copse of brown winter trees and a few more scattered gravestones, an ancient stone building. The Switch shakily made his way over the cold, muddy ground towards it. It seemed to be an abandoned chapel, with rotting old doors that were locked by an ancient padlock. Luckily, the roof hung low over the top step. Exhausted, the Switch collapsed onto that step and curled into himself, too drained and blank inside to do much more than fall deeply asleep.

-

When he woke, his hands were bound and a thick finger was poking its way painfully about in his cunt, already up to the knuckle.

He shrieked and kicked without thinking. His pale foot collided a with thickset gentleman, the jagged green toenails nearly clipping the man's muttonchopped jaw. The man backhanded him in response. The Switch saw stars.

"Bad! Naughty _dryadalis caeli_!" said the man, in cultured tones. "If that's even what you are. Your coloring's all wrong."

He was an older gentleman, with gingery whiskers and shrewd grey eyes. He wore the cloth and collar of a vicar, but had a fine brocade smoking jacket over his shirt. He'd bound the Switch's hands and lain him on a fine, colorful carpet, in a room of shelves filled with more books than the Switch had ever seen in his life (though, to be fair, the Switch had never seen very many). Now he briskly stepped back, and, as the Switch flailed, calmly began tying the Switch's legs to a pair of cozy upholstered armchairs. This left the Switch with his legs splayed open, before the man and before a roaring fire. 

The man's gaze was clinical. Despite the warmth of the room, the Switch felt afraid. 

"Well," said the man impatiently, as if the Switch was denying him something. " _Are_ you one?"

"Dunno what you mean," the Switch said, when he found the little wisp of voice he seemed to have left. "I'm a Switch, I am."

Anyone could see that. Especially all laid out like this. The man had removed both his trousers and his shift, so that the Switch was completely naked. He wriggled in helpless anxiety as the man bent and, without preamble, inserted his thick finger back into the Switch's clammed-up cunt. The Switch felt his eyes water up at the pain.

"Precisely as theorized. Wet during heats, I'll wager, but dry as a desert when finally carrying young," the man said, more to himself than to the Switch. "But I'll note the lack of development in the mammaries, despite the fact that you're easily four or five months along by the size of you."

"'m not," protested the Switch. Despite the heft of his belly, he knew it hadn't been more than a month since the Wrollf sailor had whelped him. It was just that Wrollves were big, and it stood to reason that their young were, too. Jack had told him that.

Now he was tearing up for a different reason. He didn't, couldn't miss Jack. Jack had liked to fuck nearly as rough as the constable. But Jack had also sometimes let him suckle his cock beneath the table of the Rivermere tavern, where it was warm. And Jack and his men had been the reason there was any place at all for the Switch that wasn't the workhouse.

"Low intelligence and a marked propensity for purposeless hysteria, as predicted," the man murmured now, thankfully removing his finger. He rose ponderously and crossed to a wide, marble-topped desk. He picked up a quill and began to write, ignoring the Switch completely for a few long moments as the Switch turned his head and sniffled his grief into the fine carpet.

Jack was gone. The girls were gone. The Switch had always had no one, but now he really had no one, not even the rough acquaintances that had kept him from being totally alone. 

The man picked something up from his desk, and stood for a moment silhouetted before the fire. The Switch's gaze was drawn to the thing in his hands despite himself. It was a frightening metal contraption, a circular opening with a pair of pincers clasped into a beak. The man was rubbing it with something, and it took the Switch a moment to realize that he was greasing the beak with the little pot of fat the Switch himself usually carried.

"That's mine!" the Switch cried, though as soon as he said it he wished he'd instead said, "Please, no."

Because there was only one reason he knew to use that grease.

"Waste not, want not," the man said crisply.

Then he bent and, without preamble, shoved the beak into the Switch's cunt. 

It was so, so much worse than the finger. The metal was cold and hard, and not nearly slick enough. It reached deep inside him, deep as any cock might. Once it was fully in, the man moved something, and the Switch felt the beak catch in the mouth of his cervix.

Then the man made a another movement, and then something _pried_. The Switch felt his insides open up painfully, felt cold air slip down the metal tunnel of the pincers and into him. He was making little whimpering noises now, hardly able to think. Cold sweat beaded along his chest and arms. The man scarcely noticed, standing up, leaving the metal contraption prying him open. 

He walked away, out of the Switch's line of sight. The Switch's whimpers coalesced into begging. 

"No! Please! Take it out, please! Don't leave me here!"

The man reappeared, looking irritated.

"What a tiresome little thing you are," he said crossly. "I shall gag you if you continue."

He was carrying a finely-wrought magnifying glass now, and a candle. He knelt on the carpet again and brought both close to the Switch's pried-open cunt, holding the candle aloft as he peered through the magnifying glass.

" _Fascinating_ ," he murmured, after a few moments. He fiddled with the metal contraption again and pried the Switch open even wider, ignoring the Switch's sobs. 

"Incredible! Just as Wallace hypothesized, these creatures can be bred even by Wrollves. Of course it remains an open question whether they can be bred by humans. We _are_ a higher race, after all. I shall have to do some research.."

He trailed off, and then rose again to make his notes. As he moved away, a drop of hot wax fell from the candle onto the Switch's thigh. 

He _keened_. He couldn't understand why the fierce sudden pain of the wax felt so good, but it did. Warmth always did. He was always so damnably cold, so cold that the burning went straight to that needy inner part of him, even if it also left the skin beneath the wax throbbing with hurt.

The man carried on in this way for some time, examining the Switch's innards, then making notes. Eventually he became tired of having to get up and kneel. Chortling to himself about his knees, he undid the Switch's right leg, then tied it to the left with no care for how this drove the metal contraption deeper and more painfully into the Switch's cunt. This done, the man untied his hands from wherever they were tied, keeping them bound together, and heaved the softly sobbing creature onto the desk. The marble was cold and uncomfortable, much worse than the carpet, and the metal contraption jostled as the man split his legs again, securing them once more.

As all of this happened, Switch gave another little series of cries, unable to help himself. This only made the man more cross.

"I _will_ gag you. Dammit, a man can't work with this noise!" he declared, and left again, coming back with a cloth. He leaned over to stuff it in the Switch's mouth, but then reconsidered. 

"Hang on. Could have sworn I had some of the old treatment left. Whatsitcalled that I used on that wailing urchin from my last experiments."

He began to root around in the desk drawers, until, with a satisfied, "Aha!" he produced a crystalline bottle. He uncorked the contents onto the cloth, then held it over the Switch's nose and mouth, ignoring the Switch's renewed thrashing. 

Harsh chemicals filled his nostrils. He felt lightheaded almost immediately, his eyes heavy. They drooped closed, and then he was drifting.

-

He could hear the man working, could hear snatches of muttering. 

"...very sensitive to temperatures..."

"...surprisingly hairless for a creature so like an animal..."

"...unclear how the green nails would assist it in its natural jungle habitat..."

"...can sustain an extraordinary amount of genital tearing. Clearly the Royal Exploration Company correctly surmised the wanton nature of these beasts..."

But, worse than this, he could feel the intrusions. Not just the twisting of the metal thing in him, but a wider, heavier something that felt like a steel rod, and yet more of those probing fingers, pushing in deep and examining every inch of him. When the man was done with his cunny, he flipped the woozy Switch onto his side and probed his arse. This went no better. The Switch floated in and out, each slip close to consciousness making him aware of the pain and discomfort anew. 

When he woke, the man was gone. The fire had burned so low that the Switch was shivering again. There was a persistent, awful pain in his backside. Shifting about as much as he could, he realized that the man had left something forced inside his arse, something wide and long. 

One of his legs was untied, presumably from when the man had turned him on his side. He could lift himself up a bit by placing it flat on the desk, and when he did this, hefted his arse up this way, he could bring it down and then knock at the thing stuck in his bottom. It was a clumsy, painful way to try and force it out, but it was the only way he knew how. When it finally clattered out of him, he shifted and twisted until he could knock it to the edge of the desk with his hip. As there was by now some pale morning light drifting through the windows of the room, he could see that it was some sort of scientific barometer, a sturdy column of heavy bronze that the man had shoved inside him and left there. 

No wonder he ached so badly from his bottom. 

He was powerfully hungry again, too. His arms were all pins and needles from being bound over his head, and his left leg no better. He did not want to sleep, but he didn't have the energy to do more than lay there in the cold, shifting his hips to try and find a comfort that never came. Light slowly filled the room, peeked through the windows, and he was miserable and restless by the time he heard the sound of a door opening.

"Lawks!" came a woman's shriek. "Vicar! _Vicar_!"

The door was slammed shut. For a few seconds there was silence, until the creak of it opening came again, and before long a red-faced old woman filled his vision.

"I won't have it! I won't! Leaving a dirty animal about! I won't clean with such a thing in the room! I won't! And he'll probably have me put it in the servants' quarters, too!"

The man's chuckle sounded from somewhere, indulgent as anything.

"Now, now, Mrs. McAllister. I had you put that filthy little girl in the maid's room, but this is an animal. My dear old Fido's cage will do, and then you can clean wherever you like."

"'m not," the Switch tried, and realized that his tongue was heavy in his mouth. He was still woozy. When the Vicar came and rearranged his bindings, hefting him over his shoulder, the Switch felt such a powerful dizziness he could barely think. He tried to get the words out anyway.

"'m not a...Fido. 'm not an _animal_..."

But the Vicar scarcely listened, jostling him down a long, paneled corridor and up a stair until they reached an attic room that was bare save for a few items. Some rough-looking balls, all chewed by some sort of hound. A dog's bowl. Several leashes hung on the wall. A battered dog bed, and next to that a cold metal cage large enough for the Switch. 

The man shoved him into it. The Switch flopped gracelessly on the bare metal bars, trembling despite himself. As the man turned to leave, he managed to reach pitifully for him with his bound hands. Begging.

"Please. Please. 'm _cold_."

"What?" said the man. "Oh, drat. The barometer fell out, I see. I shall have to go get it."

But before he did, he at least shoved the warm, smelly wool of the dog bed into the cage. Though he eventually forced the barometer back into the Switch, with strict instructions to keep its heavy weight firmly buried in his aching backside, the Switch still managed to curl up in the dog bed, grateful at least for the warmth. 


	5. Fido

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Switch makes a friend.

As far as the Vicar and Mrs. McAllister were concerned, a dog bed would do for the Switch, and the dog bowl as well, for meals. Of course, oft-times the Vicar forgot to feed him, as he was too busy forcing the Switch's mouth open with more metal contraptions, or prodding at the Switch's nipples and arse and cunt.

" _Dryadalis caeli_ ," the Vicar would hum cheerfully to himself, as he went about his work. "Believed to be nearly extinct!"

The Switch learned soon enough to be grateful for the days Mrs. McAllister, sniffing, would bring some table scraps up to his cold attic room. Though the Vicar evidently did not trust him enough to unbind his hands, he could still manage to eat by bringing his head to the bowl and lapping like he was indeed a dog. And, as Mrs. McAllister insisted she would have nothing wild running about the house, he was soon collared and leashed like a dog. He was even occasionally washed at the yard pump like a dog, an unpleasant experience for him. He'd never been washed before, and he discovered that washing made Monrovia winters even colder.

"Please, Vicar, sir, may I have some clothes?" he found himself asking, after what must have been a week of this, a week of seeing nothing more than the high walls of the yard and the dark wood of the draughty house. 

The Vicar waved him off.

"'Course not! Clothes? How are we to recreate conditions like your native jungles if you run about in clothes? Your kind live naked as little apes. Everyone knows that."

"I'm not from the jungles, sir," the Switch pleaded. "Please. I'm from the Gin Tangle, sir. Lived in Monrovia my whole life."

"You are from the bloody _jungles_ , you lying little fool!" the Vicar said admonishingly. "I'll prove it to you!"

And so it was that the Switch found himself tied again. This time the Vicar tied him so that his chest, head, and arms hung over the back of an armchair. His legs were each bound to an arm, so that his arse and cunt were accessible from behind. The Vicar had thankfully arranged him to face the fire, so he had that pleasant warmth on his face, but of course he could not see much of what the man was doing. The Vicar came around and put a pot on the fire, then dropped something in the pot. Then he left the room for a bit, leaving the Switch to squirm in his bindings. 

It was at this point that Fido came in, panting happily. 

For the first day or so, the Switch had made the stupid assumption that Fido was dead. Fido wasn't dead. He was only spoilt. The Vicar, while unmoved by the Switch's nighttime sobs whenever he was locked in the cage, had felt the cold metal altogether too unwelcoming a home for such a beautiful golden mastiff as Fido. Fido slept on the Vicar's bed, and ate from the Vicar's hand.

He gave a happy little ruff now, when he smelled the Switch squirming there in his bonds. Fido loped up to the armchair and got his forelegs on it, so that his muzzle was even with the Switch's backside.

"Oh nooo," moaned the Switch, knowing what was coming next. Fido's warm, rough tongue slobbered on his skinny arse. A hint of canines nipped the pale flesh until the dog found what he was looking for. The Switch's fragrant cunt and arse, scented cozily from nights spent in dog bedding, and containing -- or so the Vicar surmised -- the tantalizing scent of a Wrollf bitch well-whelped.

The Switch could feel his face burning. He didn't want to enjoy this. But the hot wet of Fido scraping him was something he did enjoy. For once his cries were pleasurable ones. 

Fido's animated tongue slapped his little cunt like the Switch was a particularly tasty treat, and the Switch angled his hips to get more. Normally his cunt was a tight little mound, but Fido managed to slobber his way in between those outer lips. It was just enough rough tongue to set the flesh there tingling with pleasure. The Switch gave a dirty sound, unbidden. He wanted Fido to go deeper.

The Vicar walked in again.

"Enjoying yourself?" he chortled.

He wasn't talking to the Switch. The Switch could hear him moving about the room, humming to himself, as Fido lapped and lathed his cunt. Something in him was building, making him try to shove back against Fido. Waves of good feeling in his cunt. All it took was a harsh dog tongue, probing him with no grace at all. The Switch couldn't tell if he was crying from pleasure or from humiliation. 

Maybe he _was_ an animal. But he couldn't stop. Fido's animal tongue assaulted his sensitive inner lips, and he wanted more.

"Now, that's enough of that, boy," said the Vicar indulgently, pulling the dog off. "You'll have the little slattern all to yourself in a bit."

He locked the whining dog out of the room. Then, without warning, he took the legs of the armchair and tilted the thing. The Vicar was a strong, large man, and it was no trouble at all to him to arrange it so that the chair was on its back. This left the Switch with his head on the carpet and his arse in the air, blood rushing to his face as he yelped queasily.

The Vicar had even easier access to his holes this way, suspended as they were above the rest of him. The Switch felt one of the man's gloved fingers playing with the rim of his arse, slathering it in cold grease.

"Now, you stupid thing. See how this feels."

Something was forced past his anal ring. Something not so big as the barometer, but _cold_. It felt like a little freezing ball. The Switch yelped again, instantly hating it.

"That's one," said the Vicar. "Now two."

The Vicar pushed it in deeper, and the Switch felt a second, slightly larger ball attached to the first. It caught on his rim until the Vicar cheerfully got it in all the way. Despite the greasing he'd been given, this was too rough for his poor arse. The friction hurt almost as bad as the cold.

"But can you do three?" said the Vicar, again more to himself than to the Switch.

"No!" begged the Switch. "No, no, please--"

But still the Vicar pressed the bulbous, icy thing deeper into him. He wailed when the third ball popped past his anal ring, seeming impossibly huge for all that it must have been only a little bigger than the second ball. The Switch couldn't see much more than his arms, but they were tinting blue with cold. His teeth were chattering.

"There!" cried the Vicar triumphantly. "See that physiological response? I must note it."

"No, please. Please take it out. _Please_ \--"

But the Vicar was off to scribble for a few minutes, while the Switch suffered and jerked about in his bonds. Though the cold made him weak as a kitten, he was desperate to get the thing out of him.

When the Vicar pulled it all out in one go, the Switch almost welcomed the pain.

"Thank you, thank you--"

The Vicar came around to the fire. The Switch could see his silhouette, albeit upside down. He had a pair of tongs now, which he used to remove the thing in the kettle. It was similar to the thing that must have been in the Switch's arse. It was a long, monstrous assemblage of linked orbs, at least ten of them, starting small and building to very large indeed. But this one pulsed red from the heat.

The Switch whimpered.

"You can only do three cold," noted the Vicar. "Now let's see how many of the hot you can take."

In the end, the Vicar noted that he could take all of it.

-

The Switch settled into a routine. It was the Vicar's routine. Mornings, he often had little use for the Switch. Around lunch, if the Vicar and Fido didn't eat everything, what was left was brought upstairs for the Switch to gorge on. In the cold afternoon, he was washed by Mrs. McAllister at the pump. Just before supper, he was poked and prodded by the Vicar, who was excited to begin writing a book on _Dryadalis caeli_. Then, if the Switch was good, he was permitted to stay in the warm dining room for the evening, leashed to the sideboard, where Fido could access him.

All of him. As the Vicar ate and read his correspondences, the huge dog circled the Switch until he could nose at his cunt. Sometimes the Switch even grew a little bit wet in anticipation, despite all his better instincts. He found himself spreading his own legs for the dog, accepting it. Fido was all the warmth and comfort he had.

It climbed on him, claws scraping his skinny limbs, and aimed its ugly cock at his cunt until it could drive in true. The burning stretch that followed was always acute. 

"Oh, oh!" the Switch would cry, words forced out of him.

"Nice little fuck there, eh, Fido?" the Vicar would say distractedly.

But the dog was too busy blanketing his victim, making the Switch's breath catch as he struggled to hold the animal's weight. Fido would fuck with abandon. The Switch would feel each wild jab in his organs, forcing him open, until Fido got a good rhythm. 

It hurt every time. The knot hurt most of all. Only by the time the knot came, there was a fog of pleasure intertwining with the hurt. The Switch could close his eyes and pretend he was back with the Wrollf sailor, being fucked so full he could barely think. This was very like that. Fido fucked harder and harder and made him yield, filled him up completely. Knotted him and claimed him.

"Filthy thing," Mrs. McAllister would sniff, when she came in to pick up the dishes and caught sight of the Switch's glassy stare.

By then the Switch would be drooling into the carpet. He couldn't help it. His cunt was his whole world by then, quivering around Fido's huge knot. In these moments Fido owned him.

-  
  
He could have stayed. It wasn't so bad. There was food, and a warm, filthy dog bed. There was no paddy wagon. The fucking was better than most he got on the streets, even if the Vicar's propensities were frightening and clinical. Even if they made the Switch understand how very subhuman he was.

But one afternoon, when Fido whined for him and he was tied up beneath the dog, feeling it pound into him, he caught the sounds of the Vicar dictating a letter to Mrs. McAllister.

"A review of the literature tells me -- no, a review of the literature _reveals_ \-- that these creatures can be bred not simply with humans but also with any number of semi- and sub- humans. Varanus komodoensis, Canis nordicus, even Canis familiaris, which, haha, I plan to confirm when this one is ready for it.

"At such a time, I will need to dispose of the current offspring, which brings me to a stunning -- no, a _revolutionary_ \-- scientific proposal, my dear Professor Wallace. You see, no one has tested whether the mongrel offspring are viable. Of course, I do not have the means to raise the thing, else I would look forward to such an endeavor. No, for four hundred pounds, a low sum indeed for such a rare treasure, I must offer you the little mutt growing in my animal's belly--"

Fear gripped the Switch's heart. Fido had pounded him into submission by now, and the knot was plugging him, making him hot and dazed. But he fought off those sensations. His breath came in hard, and though he had to hold himself up with one weak arm, the other he wound around his stomach.

His baby. Sold for four hundred pounds. The thought woke something in him, something that had been left inert and stupid even after a month of the Vicar's experiments. He could be happily, stupidly trapped by the dog's hot cock. But he did not want the thing inside him trapped.

-

Once he resolved to escape, he was surprised at how easy it was. The Vicar didn't put much stock into his intelligence, and neither did Mrs. McAllister, so he wasn't guarded very carefully when he was taken out to the pump. The gate to the yard was never locked, either.

Of course, he had no clothes. Perhaps this would have kept an intelligent creature from running.

It didn't keep him. He bolted. Mrs. McAllister shrieked admonishments. He ignored her, ignored the cold cobbles beneath his bare feet. It was a foggy afternoon. Beyond the gate, there was a leafy lane half-hidden by yellow pea soup smog, almost deserted. Though he could hear the startled cry of the occasional passerby, surprised to find a naked, pregnant inhuman darting past, he ignored those too. 

He ran and ran. The leafy district of the vicarage gave way to more smog, more crowded city. When he reached at unfamiliar, foggy intersection, he darted to the left, where he found a shadowy alleyway in which to catch his breath. His chest hurt from exertion, his limbs were numb from cold. He fell to his knees and hugged himself in the fog and dark, hiccuping. He wasn't certain he'd done the right thing, only that he'd done the one thing he _could_ do.

He stupidly didn't hear the heavy steps coming down the alleyway. But the boot that toed his cheekbone was familiar. So were the thick, meaty calves, the massive legs. The jingle of manacles as they slapped against that huge overhanging belly. 

The Switch looked up, dread overtaking him.

"Been wondering where you've been," said the constable, with a grin.


	6. The Return of the Constable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The constable is back, and he hasn't had his free fuck in a month. He's not in a forgiving mood about this.

"Now, you and I had a deal," the constable said, menace dripping from his tone. "You were to be in your alley, Switch. Waiting for me. And you've been gone a month and haven't held up your end, have you? What have you to say to that?"

But all the Switch could do was wail, because the constable was grinding his little cock into the cobbles. The pain was excruciating. The Switch's whole world was that boot mashing his soft, tender flesh into the ground.

With one fat hand, the constable jammed the Switch's head back, prying open his mouth. To show his derision, he spit into the Switch's waiting tongue.

The Switch knew what the constable liked. He swallowed automatically, the nasty gob of spit working its way down his throat. The constable's whiskery beard shifted. He was laughing quietly to himself, the way he always did when the Switch put up no trouble.

But he gave another hard grind of the boot, as if the Switch _had_ been troublesome.

"You owe me, Switch," he said, over the wails that ensued. He lifted his boot. The Switch almost cried with relief, though the pain lingered. His little cocklet was practically purple, and he knew from experience that it would stay bruised for a good while.

The constable hefted him up by the arms like he was a bother. When this couldn't force the weak creature before him to stand, he settled for kicking at the Switch until he received the desired effect.

The Switch struggled up, standing shaky and naked in the alleyway.

"You'll come to the station with no trouble," warned the constable. His large hands pawed the Switch's arse as he spoke. It was still sore from the Vicar's experiments, but the Switch knew better than to ask for mercy. The constable inserted a rough, dry digit in him, enflaming the already-sore tissue, but the Switch bit back his own noises of complaint.

"Walk," said the constable, jamming him forward. The Switch walked. 

That possessive finger became two by the time the constable had him in the back of the paddy wagon. As it clattered over the cobblestones, every jolt making the Switch's existing aches even worse, the constable jammed a third in.

"Someone's been playing with this hole," he said. "Fucking slut. You found yourself someone else to play with you, is that it?"

The Switch shook his head vigorously.

"No, sir. No, no--"

A fourth meaty finger clawed its way in. The fingers stretched his arse so wide that the Switch saw stars. The constable knew he had a dirty interest in just being full enough back there, that sometimes he liked a little intrusion. But the constable didn't like to make him feel good. That wasn't what Switches were for, in the constable's opinion. So there was no little intrusion, but instead a lot. There was this burning stretch, his rim straining to take almost all of the fat, forceful hand.

The constable wriggled his thumb around the rim, trying to find some purchase, to force it in.

"I reckon," he said casually, "that the Duke of Allerton is right about your lot. All you damned inhumans. Ungrateful, that's what you are. Our brave Lord Taverner is overseas, fighting with our boys to calm the savagery of your shores. And what do you do? Come here, and bring your whoring and your crimes to _our_ shores. I've been too nice, keeping you from the Duke's gaols--"

"No!" cried the Switch again, frightened beyond measure. The Duke was very clear about his position on inhumans. Any who confessed to breaking the law would be put to death. And, somehow, just about every inhuman that landed in his gaol ended up confessing to lawbreaking.

But the sharp exhale of his protest managed to give the constable the in he needed. The constable found a little spot in which to dig his thumb in, the fat intrusion precisely what was necessary to then get his whole fist in. The Switch's whole back tensed. His bottom was on fire. The hard fist was buried in his soft guts, punching him full and sore.

"Ought to give you a good beating at least," the constable said, breathing hard. Though he was exerting himself, fisting into the Switch like this, thrusting in and out, the Switch could hear the glee in his tone.

"You are, sir," he sobbed. "You are."

"Beating you from the inside," the constable agreed.

"Yes," sobbed the Switch.

"But you _like_ it," the constable instructed him viciously.

"I don't," the Switch said stupidly, not realizing it wasn't the answer the constable wanted. The constable withdrew his whole fist, giving the Switch a half-second of relief. Only to barrel in again, knocking the life out of him. 

"I mean I do, I do!" shrieked the Switch, desperate to stop the great fist digging itself into his tattered flesh.

"That's right," said the constable. "You do, you dirty animal. Well, never you mind. I've got what _you_ like. We'll have lots of fun, you and me."

-

When he was pulled out of the paddy wagon (the constable had been delighted to discover the Vicar's leash still about his throat), the corporal that had been driving them gave the Switch a disgusted look.

"Right filthy, that thing is," he told the constable. "You'll catch a disease, sir."

"Never you mind that. Report," said the constable. He forced the Switch to his knees in the station yard, giving him a look that quelled any opposition. The Switch shivered, kneeling there naked in the cold. Two or three coppers on break jeered at him, at his goosebump skin and distended belly, his pebbled little nipples and bruised little cock.

Only the corporal seemed uninterested in ogling him. He gave his report.

"Caught them Wrollves that burgled the Countess of Salford."

The constable clapped his meaty hands together.

"That's a feather in our caps! The Duke will want to hear of it! All the nobles will, by Jove. Those monsters burned her damn house down!"

"The Earl of Summerstoke's already given word. He's said it will be a pleasure for him to put those animals to death if you hand them over. And he's promised you a bonus, sir, and the rest of us as well. So I'd as soon give them over to the Earl, sir. Though the Duke's a good man, sir. He'd say it too, sir. That thing will give you a disease, it will."

"I said never you mind!" growled the constable, shoving the corporal with a hand. He jerked the Switch forward, almost making him fall into the cold mud of the yard. He led the Switch into the dark recesses of the station, the Switch half-crawling, half-stumbling to keep up with his pace.

Then they were in the constable's office. The Switch had only been here once before, and had mostly seen it from under the constable's desk. His sole recollection was the constable's long, fat prick, his heavy balls, and how pathetically glad he'd been to be be tucked in the warm space between the constable's thick legs. He hadn't noticed the shelves all full of reports, or the framed pictures of His Majesty, fat and regal; as well as his majesty's cousin the Duke sneering down at them. 

"Give me a disease," muttered the constable. "'Reckon you _were_ the one that gave me those bugs that time, you or Red Sally." 

He aimed another kick at the Switch's backside. The Switch fell gracelessly to the floor, yelping.

"'m clean, sir! You saw it yourself!"

He was. The Vicar had liked to pump him full of water, had done it just the other day. So when the constable had pulled his fist out, there'd been no streaks of brown, and hardly any smell. He'd still made the Switch lick his fingers clean, though, just before they'd reached the station.

"Got no diseases, I swear," the Switch said now, to the floorboards. He didn't dare look the constable in the eye. That always made the constable nastier. So he stayed put on the floor, on his hands and knees again, breathing hard.

"Right, well you bloody _are_ a disease, all your lot," snapped the constable. 

But the Switch heard the click of the door locking. The rustle of clothing as the constable shucked his trousers. He was a big, big man, with wide thighs and a great, stocky form. He stomped as he walked over to the Switch and picked up his lead again, jerking him into the center of the room. 

"Might send you to the workhouse, if I'm nice," he told the trembling little creature. "Or I might send you to the Duke after all. He's cleaning up His Majesty's nation, and you're just filth that needs to be cleaned."

"Please, sir. No. I'm in the spud line, I am--"

"Think I can't see that?" sneered the constable, peering down at his rounded belly. "Anyone can see that. But it's your fault, taking all the cocks you do. Gagging for it. It's in your nature, innit? A big, hard prick driving into your cunt. I ought to have been harder on you. But I've been softhearted. Right. Well, you know how I like to start things."

The Switch did. Obediently, he got onto his back on the cold floor. The constable squatted over him. His great pecker hung low, not yet hard, flopping onto the Switch's skinny chest. The massive globes of the constable's arse blocked out the gaslight. The foul little pucker in the middle descended.

The Switch surged his neck up and obediently put his lips to it. Now that he knew, from Fido, how good something like this could feel, he was even more miserable to be giving it and not receiving it. Now he understood why the constable grunted with so much satisfaction over it. The Switch traced the rim with his tongue, the awful smell of it permeating his senses. When the constable gave a warning grunt, he ventured in, licking up all the musty sweat and worse. He tried not to think of the taste. The constable's meaty thighs had settled on either side of him. That wide prick was firming up between his little breasts, which the constable was painfully mashing together to make a sorry kind of titfuck. 

"Get your tongue in deep," instructed the constable.

In the meantime he rutted worse than Fido, his weight knocking the breath out of the Switch. The Switch didn't dare give him reason to be even rougher yet. He went deeper, gagging only a bit at the rancid taste. He plumbed as deep as he could go with his little tongue, bathing the dirty walls as best he could. His reward was the continued mauling of his tits as the constable's excitement built.

"That's it. That's it, you little whore. I could come from this alone, I could!"

The Switch wished desperately that he _would_. But it wasn't to be. The constable pulled off of him with another grunt, leaving him gasping for clean air. Then he was tugging at his lead again, dragging him to the desk chair. The constable sat and now his dick was at full mast, a familiar and terrifying sight.

"Here's your favorite part. Get your mouth on it."

The Switch obeyed. He had to stretch his jaw wide to take in the fat head for the first few sucks. He paused those only to peel back and clean the grimy foreskin the way the constable liked. The constable's eyes lit up at how he gagged a bit. 

"Swallow it," he demanded, and the Switch did, feeling the sour taste of unwashed prick-curds make its way down his throat. Then he obediently went back to sucking, sliding his mouth down that fat pole. It made his jaw hurt and his eyes water. But he took it deeper and deeper. When it plumbed the back of his throat, the constable grabbed his hair and made him take it deeper still. The Switch whined in pain. The cock in his mouth was too much, heavy and choking on his tongue. But he didn't dare stop sucking. 

The constable set a rough pace, forcing him into a punishing throat-fuck. The hard ram battered the back of his throat, sliding into his airwaves, then retreated just enough for him to gasp for breath. He drooled pathetically on it, a slave to its whims. With each thrust into his mouth it went a bit deeper, though each time it was far too deep already, as he tried weakly to slobber on it as best he could. When it was in his throat to the hilt, his nose was buried in the constable's sweaty pubic hair and the constable's balls smacked his chin. He couldn't help but choke outright. The constable laughed again.

He slid his cock out slowly, so slowly that the Switch could feel every inch abusing his sensitive throat. When it was out, the constable slapped his hollow cheeks with it, leaving trails of precum on his face. 

The constable made a little circle in the air with his finger. 

_Turn around_.

Trembling, the Switch did. He got on his elbows and reached back to his cunt with one hand. Spread it as best he could. 

"Please," he said shakily. "If you've some grease, or oil--"

"I do," hummed the constable, and for a moment the Switch was almost relieved.

"But," continued the constable, "I think we both know that that's only for the whores that hold up their end of a deal."

Then, with one brutal thrust, he made the Switch black out from sheer unadulterated pain.

-

He woke some time later, his whole body a mass of hurt. He only woke at all because of the voices, rising in argument nearby.

"Jem, the thing will die of cold if it's not warmed up."

"Worse will happen to you if you remove your hood," came the swift response.

The Switch blinked up into the gloom. He could see a little light, from a barred window high up. There was a heavy metal door just before him. He'd been thrown in a cell. And he was indeed cold, too cold to do more than hug himself and mewl pathetically.

A shadow fell over him. He flinched instinctively.

"Look," came the same cultured voice from before. "It's in pain, Jem."

"I don't give a damn about its pain," was the guttural response.

That rough tone could only be a Wrollf. The Switch could only make out a huge form in the gloom, wide as two constables, and he whimpered. But then the form split into two. Two shadows. Still huge and tall, but not so threateningly broad. Two pairs of eyes. One gold, the other a curious poison-green. Both with slitted Wrollf pupils.

Two. Two Wrollves. Something in him went instinctively still and tractable. His bruised thighs fell open almost of their own accord. 

An invitation, despite all sense and reason, to please fuck into him and warm him, rid him of the filth of the constable.


	7. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can it be a happy ending for the Switch? Or is that too much to hope for?

He had never seen a Wrollf without tusks before.

To be sure, the golden-eyed Wrollf had tusks, peeking from its wide mouth. But the other Wrollf, though it wore a cowl and hood that obscured much of its face, seemed to have the smooth mouth and jaw of a man. Only its slitted eyes and the heavy cinnamon-colored hair on the back of its palms seemed to make it a Wrollf. A Wrollf that spoke without guttural stops, its voice musical, deep, and lovely.

"You poor little thing," it said. 

It had lifted the Switch up and pulled him into its lap. The Switch could feel its warm, broad thigh muscles through its soft, silky trousers. He curled into them, into the pit of heat where the Wrollf's finely-clad, hard abdomen met the lovely warmth of its silk-swaddled groin.

The Wrollf was big there. And half-hard. But it made no move to have the Switch address that. It only pulled its cloak about them both, letting the Switch borrow some of its natural heat.

He supposed the Wrollf was a _he_ , not an _it_. But the Wrollf was too much like a man to be a Wrollf-he, and too much like a Wrollf to be a man-he. Even its poison-green eyes were unique. Not just in color, but in how kind they were. Nothing about the Wrollf seemed taunting or cruel. What the Switch could see of its expression appeared more worried than mocking.

Its warm, long-fingered hands rubbed at his feet, until the blue tinge of cold faded and the pale flesh was veined with Switch green again.

"It's a real jungle dryad, Jem," the Wrollf was saying. "What do they call them here in the Capitol? Right -- Switches. A Switch _here_ , of all places."

The golden-eyed Wrollf, taller and more hulking than his companion, snorted through his tusks. He flicked a few long strands of black hair over his broad shoulders, all disdain.

"Switches are blonde, what few of them even remain. You know that."

"Yes, well, I'm told all Wrollves have claws and tusks," was the retort. "Maybe it's a halfling."

Then the green-eyed Wrollf was rubbing the Switch's thin hands, trying to bring the color back to those. The Switch gazed up at him in wonder.

"Th-thank you," he said, through chattering teeth.

The Wrollf answered wonder with wonder.

"You speak!"

Then: " _D'lani walhe meera_?"

The Switch blinked up at him, confused. The green-eyed Wrollf frowned.

"He doesn't even know his own language," snorted the derisive Jem, from his place leaning against the corner wall. He was leaving the hard cell bench to the green-eyed Wrollf and to the Switch. Perhaps he, like normal Wrollves, didn't like the smell of another Wrollf's pup in the Switch's belly. But the Switch thought the green-eyed Wrollf must not mind. He was still pulling him in close, every gentle press of those big hands a wonderful spark of heat.

The Switch opened up his mouth to thank him again. Jem beat him to the punch.

"How can you waste a thought on that thing, in the situation that we're in?"

The green-eyed Wrollf only shot the Switch a glance that looked, of all things, almost amused. Amused to be in a cell.

"What situation? Freddie will be here shortly."

"They _saw_ me. I don't doubt they recognized me!"

"And you were intercepting the burglars, and trying to save the dear Countess' jewels, as well you should have been. And then you were mistaken for one of them. One Wrollf, as you know, looking much like another."

Jem gave a growl.

"You've been damned reckless, Summer--"

"Shhhh!" hissed the green-eyed Wrollf, as if it couldn't bear to let its name get out. "Talk about reckless!"

But, though the powerful, brutish Jem looked chastised, the Switch was grateful to have a name for the other Wrolf. _Summer_. How it fit the green-eyed Wrollf. He was kind and warm as the brief Monrovia summers.

Jem gave a muffled roar and slid down the wall, kicking out his long legs.

"Freddie could be hours."

"Yes," said Summer patiently. "But Freddie will be here. You forget: he's never let us down before."

After this they spoke no more for a bit. Jem was busy looking furious, and Summer -- he was too busy with the Switch.

"Forgive my companion. He's a surly sort. But you -- you're a veritable miracle! What are you doing here, in the capitol just after Wintermass? Oughtn't you have migrated somewhere South for the winter?"

This was no easier to parse than the string of bizarre syllables Summer had directed at him before.

"Dunno how to migrate," said the Switch. "Only really left the Gin Tangle maybe a month ago."

"The Gin Tangle?" Summer said, aghast. "What -- you mean that dirty slum?"

"Right. That's where I'm from, I am," said the Switch. "I'm always there after Wintermass. Always there every other season, 'cept for recently. And that..." he trailed off, cringing at the thought of the Vicar, at the thought of his capture by the constable. At the yawning fear of what might come next.

"T'isn't going well," he admitted, and ducked his head in shame. 

Summer ran a hand through the Switch's hair. His movements were as possessive, firm, and decided as any Wrollf's, but there was something nice about them, too. The Switch liked the heavy weight of those long fingers on his scalp. He shifted to try and give Summer better access. 

Then, in shifting, he saw that he'd fouled up the Wrollf's fine trousers. It was his sore, leaking cunt that had done it, dribbling out little bits of cum and blood. He was so used to that that he hardly noticed it, but now the pain rose to the forefront of his mind. The shame too. He gave a little embarrassed cry.

"Cold still?" Summer demanded, mistaking his upset.

The Switch shook his head.

"Your trousers, sir. I'm sorry, I am. I'm so sorry--"

"Shhh," said Summer, rocking him close again. "It's alright. They _have_ used you frightfully, haven't they? Here, budge up on the bench for a bit and let us have a better look."

He shifted to the edge of the bench and directed the Switch to crawl up the length of it, so that his arse and cunt were plain to see. The Switch shook a little from the renewed cold, and from his own embarrassment. He would be a ruin. He didn't care so much if others saw, but he wished Summer could see something other than a bruised little cocklet, a torn and bleeding cunt. The loose wreck of an arse well-fisted.

Summer's long-fingered hands traced what the Switch was sure were half-formed bruises on his bottom. When Summer spoke, his voice was icy and furious.

"They've brutalized you. _I_ would not have."

"You take good care of your toys," came the mocking Jem.

"I do," Summer said, as if he were not being baited. "I'd be firm with you--"

At _firm_ , one of his warm hands kneaded the flesh of the Switch's arse, and the Switch cried out in shock. He couldn't tell if he was in pain over it, or if he wanted Summer to do it again.

"--I'd certainly make sure I got the most out of you, but I wouldn't destroy you like this, my little Switch. This hole--"

Here Summer blew a hot breath into the Switch's loose arsehole. The Switch did cry out in pleasure at it. It was like there was something electric to Summer's warmth, something he would like inside him no matter how it might ruin him further. 

"--is stretched so wide I doubt you'll close by next fortnight. And you'd think they would have confined themselves to that, but to then go and use your little kitten?"

A warm finger stroked the sore mound of his cunt. The Switch whimpered, and rubbed back against it.

"This sweet thing needs to be _coaxed_ , in the state you're in. You're all clammed up tight to protect the baby, aren't you? Getting you nice and wet and open takes work, when you're like this."

The finger migrated up to his little bead, circling it, rubbing it. Little rubs that made him want. The Switch tried to rock back even harder, making Summer laugh.

"Oh, and the _poor_ little cock," he murmured. His fingers only glanced it, as if it was too destroyed to bear touching. "You've probably never even used it, I'll wager. It's little practical use to your kind until you're mature, and you're a babe yet if I've ever seen one. The youngest Switch I've ever met, I think."

This brought the Switch up short.

"You've met others, sir? Like -- like me?"

He could hear how high and desperate he sounded. But still. Other Switches. He hardly ever considered there might be others. It seemed too beautiful a fantasy to have dashed the way all his other fantasies inevitably were.

Summer's reply was a bit belated, his tone a bit clipped.

"I have," was all he said.

Then his breath was back on the Switch's loose arsehole.

"I may be waiting here a bit," he said conversationally. "I'd like to fuck you. You're just about stretched enough to take me back here without much pain, little Switch. And I think I have something to ease the way. Jem, have you my hair pomade?"

"'Course I do, you bloody dandy," came the surly growl from the corner. 

"You could suck Jem off as well," Summer said thoughtfully, "and improve his mood."

Truthfully, the last thing the Switch wanted was to suck or be fucked. He could have crawled back to the Vicarage and begged to be locked up in the cage again, if only it would mean no more fucking for tonight. But a part of him wanted desperately to please Summer, wanted it and would happily suffer to make it so. It was in how hot Summer's touch was, how commanding his voice was. How Summer knew of the Switch's kind. The Switch hadn't felt this helpless since the Wrollf sailor had grabbed him by the neck, pulled down his trousers, and relentlessly fucked a baby into him.

"Please, will you cover me up with your body, sir?" he asked tentatively. "I'd like to be--be warm, while you fuck me."

Summer laughed again, a laugh of pure surprised delight. He slipped two hot fingers into the Switch easily, that was how loose his arse still was. 

"I _never_ take orders, little Switch. But we can come to an arrangement that will warm you up, I think."

He ended up on the floor of the cell. At first Summer made Jem spread his jacket on the floor underneath him, but to the Switch that was a waste of a good warm jacket. He greedily draped it over himself as he crawled in between Jem's legs. As the Switch undid Jem's trousers, Summer, who the Switch could not seem to stop gazing at for all that his face was still hidden, half-flipped his legs over to gain access to his backside. He was left partially on his side, his own legs splayed for the green-eyed Wrollf to take his pleasure. 

They were of a size, the two Wrollves. That was to say, they were both big. When Jem's cock was out and hard in his hands, Summer's just as hard at his entrance, the Switch was so overwhelmed by the sheer size, and by the thought of taking _two_ , that for an instant he could barely breathe.

Summer was leaning over him then. He patted down his trembling flanks, and brought the heat of his fingers to the Switch's mouth.

"Suck," he commanded.

The Switch did. It was warm and calming, lying here under the Wrollf's body heat, covered for once, with his head in the coarse pillow of Jem's black pubic hair. Even with Jem's huge cock stretching over him. He was cocooned by the Wrollves. And the fingers in his mouth were a nice warm thing to focus on. 

"That's right," Summer said soothingly. "Warm. Just like you wanted. Why, I'll bet you'd willingly let us do whatever we liked, let us beat you and hurt you, fuck you half-dead. So long as we kept you warm."

The Switch blinked. He knew the words weren't nice, but the tone was so decided and musical and lovely. And Summer was _right_. He moaned around those fingers to show his assent. He was rewarded by Summer's green eyes going bright. The Wrollf was smiling, he thought.

"Sweet thing," Summer crooned. "Sweet, ruined little thing. I see now why someone ruined you. It's not my usual thing, but with you it's terrific fun, I bet."

He slowly pulled out his fingers, dropping them to the Switch's jaw. They were firm as they turned his head, directed him to Jem's cock.

"Finally," Jem muttered.

"Lick," Summer ordered. "And suck. And breathe Jem in. I want your little brain full of Jem. Think of how kind he is, to give you this cock. Love this cock, my little Switch. Treat it like it owns you."

So the Switch licked it, lapping at the salty musk of Wrollf. Inhaling it. He buried his nose and mouth in the crevices of that huge prick, obeying Summer's imperative as best he could. Tracing the stark veins, using both hands to stroke the length. But the cock he was thinking of was the one at this arse, the one attached to Summer. When that one pressed into him, it was clear that, pomade or no, looseness or no, it was too much. His eyes watered.

"You can take it, little Switch," Summer declared, and didn't stop pressing in.

And he did. He did take it. It was not so thick as the constable's fist, after all, for all that it was still thick and far, far too long. Summer pushed into him until the globes of the Switch's arse kissed his heavy sack, his half-open silky trousers. He was hard and hot as hell itself inside the Switch's swollen back channel. The Switch could only cry over Jem's cock, overcome by the drag of that big prick inside him. Summer set a slow, deliberate pace. It made the Switch feel every hot inch of him. 

He hurt. But he found himself relaxing. The full, slow fucking he was getting was almost calming, and he still felt so safe between the Wrollves. Not cold or exposed at all. And every time Summer bottomed out in him, his big cock scraped a place that the Switch had never felt before.

His little cocklet, useless and pained, began to firm up. He barely understood that this was happening. Then Summer thrust a long, powerful arm beneath the jacket and closed his fingers around it. It was painful, but each stroke of his hands was good, too. The Switch began to keen, unable to think. The cock inside him rubbed his hurt spots until they felt better. The cock at his mouth smelled and tasted too good to bear. And his own cock woke up for the first time in his short life. He jerked violently when he came, unable to process what was happening. Little spurts of his own cum painted his belly and the underside of the jacket. 

When Summer brought a come-drenched hand to his mouth, he licked it clean without thinking.

-

He was in a haze for the rest of it, lulled by the slow, overwhelming fuck. Summer's cock was his entire world. It felt so good. His cocklet kept spurting and spurting, every time the pleasure built. Soon it had spurted so much that it hurt even more than before, and he was crying. At some point, Jem had come all over his face. But he hardly even noticed the hot Wrollf cum that would have been a high point for him otherwise. 

"Don't bloody knot him," Jem growled. "You know how you get when you knot them."

"I know," Summer said, voice strained like he was close. His voice woke up a piece of the Switch.

"Please," he begged.

He didn't want to come anymore, but he wanted the knot. Wanted Summer's knot in him. 

"You can't keep him," Jem insisted. "Where would you bloody keep this thing? Don't you dare fucking knot him."

" _Please,_ please, want your knot. Want it, master Summer--"

"He knows my name," panted Summer. "I've got to keep him."

"That's not your fucking _name--_ Oi! You'd better not knot him!"

"I...won't," Summer growled. But he still came in waves, waves of heat, and the Switch cried happily at it. He was burning up, he was hurting, he was hard again, and that was hurting too, and he was so warm and grateful for this pain, which at least meant he was crushed here under Summer. Under this half-man, half-Wrollf, this strapping, masterful being. 

Then Summer's huge cock twitched. Something else filled up the Switch. It was even hotter than his cum, the smell acrid and overpowering. The Switch jerked feebly again, and his eyes locked on Summer's laughing green ones.

"Master, am I?" the Wrollf rasped. "I'll be your master. What do you say?"

The Switch could only moan.

"Th-thank you. Thank you for your piss, Master--"

Jem swore violently.

"You said not to knot him," Summer said, icy about it. "You never said not to claim him another way."

-

Summer wrapped him in the sticky, cum-encrusted jacket. He made the Switch sit on his cock, which had the benefit of keeping the Switch close to his warm body. The Switch fell asleep that way, his loose arsehole twitching, all the cum and piss plugged up inside him, nearly as good as a knot. 

He was so exhausted he scarcely woke when a polished, golden-haired gentleman entered the cell, and began arguing furiously with Summer.

"By all the Saints, Summerstoke, you _cannot_ keep him--"

"That's what _I_ said," put in Jem.

But Summer's arms curled around the Switch possessively.

"I'll find a way," Summer promised.

The Switch moaned helplessly in answer, still twitching a little bit on Summer's cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this! The Switch's story continues in ["Anka."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203734/chapters/58303435)


End file.
